Beautiful, tender, and unsentimental – a rare and welcome combination in poems about animals.
It’s late at night, and the new black dog
That’s still a pup that’s growing
Comes to my side, and he wants a lift
Into my lap for holding.
It’s strange, this act, for the new black dog
Will shy away from lifting
As if he feels that the earth below
Is then unsure and shifting.
Most times, it’s true, that we play a game
Where he, at first, shows yearning
He raises up, and he puts black paws
Against my leg, thus earning
A reach by me, and I try to lift
Him on my lap for loving
That’s when he shies, and I miss the dog –
He’s quick in backward moving.
But on this night, it’s the new black dog
Who’s still and wants the boosting
Into my lap where he curls and lies –
A place for late night roosting.
It’s late at night, and…
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